Words of LIFE

03

Mar2013

The night before I went to the weird little church in the strip mall, I was out drinking on 6th street until 2 am. I wasn’t buzzed or tipsy, I was “passed-out-and-wake-up-in-Mexico” drunk. Luckily, I didn’t, and somehow, I managed to pull myself together, take a quick nap, hop in the shower, and jump in my truck.

I rolled into the back of the church with my hat pulled low, wearing my sunglasses. I didn’t want anyone to see my bloodshot eyes, and my hangover pounded away on the sides of my skull louder than the drum kit. The drummer, the lead singer, and the style of music were way different than anything I’d ever seen or heard in “church” before. They were African-American—this was a full-on Gospel music experience.

To say I was uncomfortable and out of my element would be a huge understatement ... and yet ... I stayed. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand why I didn’t find a reason to bail. Something was happening, but I knew too much to let it happen. I was a master of illusion, a psych major, keenly aware of the culture and psychological triggers ministers use to captivate their audience.

But it wasn’t about them. I was looking for something deeper. And suddenly, unexpectedly, miraculously, I found it.

Through the passion, the music, and the message, I experienced something new. It wasn’t a feeling. It wasn’t an emotion. It was more mysterious and profound. It was a supernatural connection, pulling at my heart.

My head couldn’t stop this. These weren’t facts that I was learning through the recesses of my mind. I don’t remember what was said. In that moment, the undeniable reality of God’s existence became so clear. He wasn’t a series of facts to be debated or researched. Truth wasn’t a set of right answers.